


live with me forever now (pull the blackout curtains down)

by epilogues



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Apocalypse, End of the World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 01:01:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12244062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilogues/pseuds/epilogues
Summary: With only four days to go before the asteroid named 3426 Gratian is projected to collide with Earth, a large majority of business owners are closing their doors for what many believe will be the last time. Latest reports from scientists across the globe seem to agree on one thing: Gratian will not leave survivors.Pete stares at the paper in his now trembling hand in shock. This. . .can’t be real, right? This isn’t happening. But as he flips through the week’s earlier editions of the paper, through other publications, reality starts to choke him. The world is really going to end in four days.





	live with me forever now (pull the blackout curtains down)

**Author's Note:**

> ((title from fall out boy's immortals))
> 
> this is angsty and took me way too long to finish. enjoy  
> {also i edited this at 12am plEAse yell at me abt any typos lmao}

Having lived most of his life in or near cities, Pete’s used to dodging sketchy men in alleys, overeager souvenir vendors, and panicky doomsday preppers. Today, though, he seems to be attracting far more of the third than usual. On his quick walk to the grocery store, Pete counts seven cardboard signs telling him that _THE END IS NEAR! PREPARE FOR THE END OF DAYS! GOD’S WRATH WILL RAIN DOWN UPON US ALL!_ It’s weird, he’ll admit, but he shrugs it off.

At least, he shrugs it off until he passes a man pushing a cart full of bottled water out of the store, looking strangely frantic about his task. A couple of meters away, a woman is quickly stockpiling water into the trunk of her car. _Is there some sort of drought warning I missed?_ Pete wonders. It wouldn’t be that surprising; it’s California after all, and he’s been so holed up working on the new album with the band that he’s probably missed out on a good bit of current events. _Maybe that’s why there were so many people with those signs. Bit of an overreaction if you ask me, but whatever._

It’s only when Pete spots the newspaper rack in the store that the pit begins to form in his stomach. The first headline he sees reads, _“Four Days Left, Businesses Closing.”_ There’s a picture of a man (Pete recognizes him as the owner of a local coffee shop) flipping his OPEN sign over with a solemn face next to a picture of some sort of satellite image. Confused, Pete picks up the paper and skims the article.

 **Alexander Alden, LATD -** _With only four days to go before the asteroid named 3426 Gratian is projected to collide with Earth, a large majority of business owners are closing their doors for what many believe will be the last time. Latest reports from scientists across the globe seem to agree on one thing: Gratian will not leave survivors. The asteroid, which is roughly the size of Asia in diameter, is projected to hit the northeast Pacific ocean at 7:23am PST this Friday. Computer simulations run by NASA and affiliated organizations show that Gratian is likely to shift the angle of Earth’s axis and cause our planet to become nothing more than debris in the asteroid belt._ _Many people, especially those along the west coast, are evacuating, though most scientists agree that doing so is not likely to be of any help. See page D3 for list of closed public facilities. See [cont. GRATIAN, pg C1]_

Pete stares at the paper in his now trembling hand in shock. This. . .can’t be real, right? This isn’t happening. But as he flips through the week’s earlier editions of the paper, through other publications, reality starts to choke him. The world is really going to end in four days.

There are so many questions, so many worries and fears and thoughts that are rising in Pete’s veins and racing along his nerves, but strangely enough, the first thing he latches onto is the fact that he still needs to buy stuff for dinner. Pete clings to that shred of normalcy, almost like if he ignores the end of the world, it just won’t happen.

Shoving the newspapers away like they’re burning him, Pete turns away and grabs a shopping cart. The crumpled grocery list he pulls out of his pocket becomes his lifeline as he travels up and down the aisles, buying soda and chips and Joe’s favorite coffee like it’s any other day. Except. . .it’s not. It’s not, and he realizes that pretending is going to change absolutely nothing when he sees the almost empty shelves where the water should be.

It brings back something his mother once told him about how people behave before a big storm, stocking up on eggs and water and bread. That, coupled with the fact that holy shit, this world where his mother lives and where he was born and where millions upon millions of people exist every day, this fucking mess of a world- this world is _going to end in four fucking days_ , loosens Pete’s grip on his lifeline and he falls into the flood of questions drowning his brain.

The one repeating the most is _PatrickAndyJoe?_ Does he tell them? Does he not say a word and let them have their last four days in peace? How would he keep it a secret? How does he fucking deal with the fact that in four short, short days, the lives of the three people he loves most in the world are going to end? Pete doesn’t care as much about his own life, but the thought of his boyfriends dying makes him nauseous. They all deserve to live to be crotchety old men, waving their canes at kids on the front lawn. But a fucking asteroid, a fucking _rock,_ is taking that from them.

How on Earth are you supposed to tell someone that? Why did Pete have to be the one to find out? Shouldn’t someone make sure everyone hears about this, even weird, hermit-y musicians? Shouldn’t God’s voice come down from above and apologize? Why should Pete have to be the one to walk through the front door and poison their lives with this?

And that’s when Pete decides that he won’t, can’t, do it. He’s not going to tell them. He’ll keep the radio off, keep the TV away, and he’ll give them these last four days without worry. He’ll find a way.

Mind made up, Pete hefts two large packages of bottled water from the shelf and places them in his cart. _Everything’s going to be okay_ , he tells himself, even though he knows it’s not true. _Everything will be okay._  


* * *

 

It’s not okay, it’s really, really not, and the truth of this sinks in more and more with every second as Pete lugs his groceries back home. He’s carrying way more than he’d planned, arms full of what he prays will be enough to keep everyone in the house until. Until.

All things considered, though, Pete thinks he’s handling this pretty well. He hasn’t even stopped to throw up into a bush on the side of the road yet.

His hands start feeling shaky when he reaches his driveway, though. Pete’s never been so thankful for smooth pavement before; the crunch of gravel under his feet would be too much right now. He reaches the garage and has to stop and gather himself. He worked out a plan earlier as he traveled through the aisles of the store: he’ll walk in like everything’s fine and tell the others that he wants to have an official “Fall Out Boy Lock-In At Our House Because It’ll Be Cool And I Love You Guys.”

Patrick will probably be the most skeptical about it, but Pete figures he's had enough experience convincing Patrick to go along with his crazy schemes to make this work.

Exhaling slowly, Pete pushes open the door and tries his best to fix a wide, excited smile across his face. He's never exactly been known for being a great actor, but fuck if this performance isn't about to be Grammy-worthy.

“Hey, I'm home!” he calls, praying his bright voice doesn’t sound as strained as it feels.

Joe pokes his head around the corner of the kitchen doorway. “Hey, babe. Need help carrying anything in?”

Pete shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. Where are Trick and Andy?”

“Working on some drum stuff for the album.”

“Cool.” Pete drops the groceries on the counter and starts unpacking the bags, very carefully _not thinking_ about what he’s about to do or about the fact that Joe, who’s standing right next to him and curling a soft hand around Pete’s shoulders, who Pete’s known for years upon years and still hasn’t left, who Pete loves more every single day, _Joe_ \- is going to die in four days.

“So,” Pete says quickly, before he blurts out something stupid like, _The world is ending in four days and I just want to hold you until it happens and never let go._ “I was thinking while I was at the grocery store, and -”

“I _knew_ I smelled something burning,” Joe jokes, and it’s quite possibly the lamest joke Pete’s heard in pretty much ever, but he laughs anyway because he needs something to hold on to.

“Shut up,” he says playfully, bumping Joe’s shoulder with his own before reaching down and taking the younger man’s hand. “So, I was thinking, and I want to have a band meeting tonight because I have literally the _coolest_ idea ever.”

Joe glances inside one of the bags that Pete’s halfway through unpacking and raises one eyebrow. “Does this idea have anything to do with so much fucking water? You do know we have a tap, right?”

“Maybe,” Pete says, winking, even though the movement weighs down every cell in his body.

* * *

 

“Alright, we’ve officially started the band meeting!” Pete announces. He’s wearing his best _ImAboutToDoSomethingDumbButYoureGoingToLetMeBecauseItsMe_ grin. “Are you guys ready to hear the coolest idea ever?”

Patrick looks skeptical. “Is this a ‘drink my own piss on stage’ idea or a legitimate idea?”

“It’s good, I promise,” Pete says, and he wants to back out of this, wants to tell them the truth, but he doesn’t think he could actually make those words leave his mouth. “So. I propose that for the next four days, we all have an Official Fall Out Boy Lock-In At Our House Because It’ll Be Cool And I Love You Guys.”

There’s a silence around the table before Andy speaks up. “You want to have a. . . lock-in.”

Pete nods, getting more and more into his role. “Yeah! So basically we all just stay in the house for the next four days and hang out. We don’t even have to work on the album, it can just be a chance for us all to spend some time together.”

“We've pretty much been having a lock-in already,” Patrick points out. “I haven't really left the house in days other than to walk Hemmy around the block.”

“Same here,” Joe adds.

Andy nods in agreement. “I went to the gym three days ago, but that's been it for me.”

“Okay, yeah, but that wasn't _official,_ ” Pete whines. “Now it'll be official, which makes it ten times cooler. And don't worry about food, I made sure to get enough.”

Joe shakes his head, though a small smile is creeping across his face. “Okay, okay, I'm in.”

“Awesome!” Pete exclaims, except. It's not awesome. It's not awesome, because it's the last four days any of them are ever going to have.

“Alright,” Andy concedes with a sigh. “But I reserve the right to back out if things get really bad.”

Pete leans across the table and kisses Andy's cheek sloppily, making sure not to let his grin slip. “Granted. Patrick?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Fine. But like Andy said, if we run out of food or anything, I'm out.”

Pete jumps up from the table in victory and launches himself onto the couch. “I declare a dogpile to celebrate the official start of the lock-in!”

As the others clamber onto the couch as well, a tangle of limbs and laughter, it breaks Pete's heart to know that they only have four more days. Though he can't say he regrets his decision not to tell them, not when the worry lines Patrick always gets while writing are softening, not when Andy's tucking his head into the crook of Pete's neck, not when Joe's wrapping his strangely monkey-like limbs around all of them, not when the other three are this happy.

* * *

 

That night, after everyone else has fallen asleep, Pete slides out from under the covers and slips downstairs to call his mom.

As he listens to the dial tone, he stares at the wood grain of the table and focuses on keeping his breathing steady. His mom picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. Listen, uh. How long have you known?”

“Known what, honey?” Her voice tells him she knows the answer; the question is both (and yet neither) a formality and an attempt to stall.

“The asteroid.” The words spiral out from Pete's lips, snaking out into every dark corner of the kitchen. “The guys and I hadn't left the house in days, but today I went to get groceries, and. Well. I saw the newspaper.”

“Oh.” There's a silence, then, “Do the others know?”

Pete winces. “No. But I don't want to. . .well. I just want to know how long everyone's known.”

“The UN made a statement two days ago, I was going to call, but I think everyone was still trying to process,” – Pete exhales; he's honestly just really relieved that it hasn't been, like, weeks and no one thought to tell him – “but, Pete, honey, why don't the others know?”

“I couldn't, Mom,” he says, after a minute. “I couldn't, and I'm just not going to. So I'm going to give them these last four - well, three now - days.”

Something rustles on the other side of the line, chased by his mom's voice. “I'm not saying whether you're wrong or right, but what if they want to evacuate? Are you sure you want to take that choice away?”

“I don't know,” Pete says, letting his forehead drop onto the table. “But the paper said evacuating is pointless anyway. And I just. . . why make them worry?”

“Like I said, I'm not saying whether you're wrong or right, mostly because I don't know. Just. . .” she trails off. “I don’t know what to tell you. Just be careful.”

“I will,” he promises. “I should go, but I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too.”

Pete hangs up before he says anything else. The realization that this will probably be the last time he calls his mom sits between his lungs, contracting and expanding and _hurting_ with each breath.

He puts his phone facedown on the table and rests his face in his hands. _Is_ he doing the right thing? What if trying to evacuate might save them? He’s been too busy all day to really think about it, but now he’s starting to really freak out. The world is ending. In three days. Every name in the history books, every statue behind glass in museums, everyone that ever lived - it’s all going to be gone in three days.

Pete can’t help but wonder why it’s his generation that has to deal with this. Why couldn’t the end of the world just be postponed a couple of decades or centuries? Why does it have to be the lives of everyone he knows and loves being cut short?

It’s kind of really, really terrifying to think about. He’s going to die in three days. There’s so much he hasn’t done and now will never be able to do. He’s going to die in three days. His mom’s going to die in three days. Patrick’s going to die in three days. Joe’s going to die in three days. Andy’s going to die in -

“Pete?”

Pete jerks his head up at the unexpected sound, confused when his hand brushes his cheek and comes away wet. When did he start crying?

“Pete, you okay? I woke up and you weren’t in bed.”

It’s Patrick, hair sticking up in a million directions and eyes groggy. Pete quickly scrubs a hand across his face.

“Oh, yeah, I’m good,” he says unconvincingly. “Just couldn’t sleep, thought I’d give my mom a call.”

Patrick sits down next to him and puts a gentle hand on his cheek. “Don’t do this. You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m just tired,” Pete mumbles, letting himself lean into Patrick’s touch. “Sorry.”

“Hey, don’t apologize, it’s okay. You know you can talk to me, or any of us for that matter, right?”

“I know. And I’m fine, I promise. Just couldn’t sleep. Let’s go back to bed.” Pete rises from his chair and turns towards the stairs. Patrick follows, concern still echoing in his steps, and they crawl back into bed with Andy and Joe. Pete doesn’t sleep for a long time.  


* * *

 

“Stop shaking the table, Pete,” Andy says warningly as he leans closer to the teetering Jenga tower.

“I'm not!” Pete protests, even though he totally is.

Andy rolls his eyes and carefully pulls out a wooden block, tentatively placing it on top of the wobbly tower.

Patrick takes his turn as Pete leans back in his chair. It's already late afternoon. They all slept in this morning and have just been enjoying the lazy day. It's all going too fast for Pete to handle, time rushing by in a way it rarely does for him. 

"Pete? Your turn, love," Joe says.

"Oh, sorry," Pete blinks, "I zoned out for a sec there." He surveys the unstable tower in front of him and chooses a loose-looking block. The minute he starts pulling it out, though, he knows he's made the wrong choice, and the tower comes crashing down onto the table. As they all start sweeping the pieces into the box, the kitchen light and cheery, Pete can only pray that it's not a metaphor.

Jenga is followed by Monopoly, Go Fish, Uno, all the games they haven't played in years. It's good. It's home. Thankfully, Patrick doesn't bring up the previous night, and no one questions Pete when he insists that _he_ has to be the one to take Hemmy around the block for his walk because it's _his_ lock-in and he's the only one who's allowed. 

The sun is sinking before Pete knows it. He feels like he's caught in the neck of an hourglass, slowly suffocating under the rush of sand.

 Joe and Patrick both go to bed pretty early, leaving Andy and Pete on the couch to finish watching _The Nightmare Before Christmas._

("Pete, it's literally April," Patrick had protested, but Pete had won him over by reminding him of just how good the soundtrack was. As it was, though, Patrick and Joe had barely made it to Sally's song before turning in for the night.)

Pete's practically in Andy's lap, arm around the younger man's shoulder and face buried in his neck. Andy's chin is resting on the top of Pete's head, and Pete could honestly stay like this forever. The movie rolls to a close; Neither of them move.

The living room is quiet for a moment, and then Pete breaks the silence, breaks his resolve, and tells Andy the truth. He tells Andy about the people stockpiling water in the parking lot, about the newspapers, about his plan, about the fucking meteor that's _ending the world in three days._

Except - he doesn't. Pete doesn't say a single word, just presses a kiss to Andy's collarbone and pulls him upstairs where they crawl into bed next to Joe and Patrick, who are already asleep.

* * *

 

At two am, Pete sneaks downstairs and turns on the news, keeping the volume as low as possible. He's praying for some sort of miracle, like that someone's found a way to turn the meteor around or that it's actually just going to miss Earth on its own. But miracles, it seems, only come in Nicholas Sparks novels and Lifetime movies.

The name Gratian is everywhere. It's racing along the banners at the bottom of the screen, filling every block in the channel guide, falling out of newscaster's mouths every other word. Nearly every news network is running 24/7 coverage, though a notice that broadcasting may be cut off at any point flashes across the screen every couple of minutes.

There doesn't seem to be anything new about Gratian itself, only stories showcasing humanity on its deathbed. The world isn't as much of a mess as Pete had thought it would be. The majority of people seem to be simply closing their doors, closing their eyes, and praying that it ends quickly.

There are, of course, still incidents. 

"Another large wave of evacuees from Western US arrived in Washington, D.C. today," the newscaster is currently saying. His voice washes over Pete like urgency and poison, sticking to Pete's skin and burrowing its way underneath. "There were eight casualties, six men and two women, when a 17-year old boy named Luke Hayward threw a grenade into a crowd waiting to be admitted into the city. Hayward was among those who died.

"Witnesses report that Hayward shouted something like, "I need it to matter, it has to matter," before detonating the explosive. It is believed to have been a solitary suicidal act, but police are now increasing security amongst evacuees."

The newscaster shuffles his papers. "We return to our 24/7 live coverage of 3426 Gratian shortly."  The screen cuts to the notice about how broadcasting may be cut off and stays there for roughly five minutes; commercials are evidently no longer being run. 

Pete shuts off the TV and stares at the ground, forehead in his hands and elbows braced on his thighs. He has two days left. Two days.

* * *

 

"Hey, do you guys know if the new season of Game of Thrones is on yet?" Patrick asks, plopping himself down onto the couch and picking up the remote.

Pete's about to throw back a noncommittal answer when he realizes that the second the TV comes on, the news is going to start playing. There's a split second where he considers letting it happen. simply feigning ignorance and playing the timing of the lock-in off as coincidence, but he knows he can't just stand by and watch that. He can't.

So Pete springs into action. He runs into the living room, letting the spoon he was stirring the pancake batter with clatter to the floor, and dives over the back of the couch. He tumbles into Patrick's lap, effectively snatching the remote and hitting the power button just as the word _Gratian_ sneaks out into the room, dissipating quickly and only really noticed by Pete. 

"What the fuck, Pete?" Patrick asks, reaching for the remote.

Pete sits up, holding it just out of the younger man's reach. "New lock-in rule," he declares with his trademark shit-eating grin. "No TV or radio. Or Internet."

Andy and Joe step into the living room now, looking unsurprised by the sight in front of them. Patrick gives them a look that says, _Please tell me you two aren't going to agree with this shit._

"What's the new lock-in rule?" Joe asks. "We only heard the first part."

Pete waggles the remote at them. "No TV, radio, or Internet."

"I didn't agree to this," Patrick grumbles, making another failed attempt to get the remote.

Andy sighs. "Really, Pete?" 

"It'll make the lock-in more lock-in-y," Pete explains. "C'mon, it's only for two more days. We can still watch movies and stuff, but no live TV."

"I'm game," Joe shrugs. "Not like I watch a lot of TV or anything. And the Internet's been on the fritz the past couple days anyway."

"It has," Patrick says, like he's just now realizing. "I couldn't check Twitter or anything this morning." He turns to Pete. "Please tell me that's not your fault."

Pete raises his hands in the air. "Innocent on that one. But hey, maybe it's the universe saying that taking a break from Internet and stuff is a good idea."

"Okay," Andy says. "I'm fine with that, but Pete, if you try to add any other rules, I swear-"

Pete bounces off the couch (remote still in hand) and cuts him off with a quick kiss. "No more rules. I promise. Maybe."

Patrick heaves a sigh, but there's no real irritation behind it. "Fine."

Something feels like it's ripping apart inside of Pete, but he gives Patrick a huge smile and tries not to think about the countdown ticking in the back of his mind.  


* * *

 

Cell service goes down sometime around four that day. Joe figures it out when his text reply to his brother's _"Hey. Are you guys doing okay?"_ refuses to send.

"Hey, babe," he says, looking over at Patrick, who's lying on the floor and idling petting Hemmy.  "Do you know why my phone just lost signal completely?"

Patrick sits up, disturbing Hemmy. The dog skitters away, nails clacking against the hardwood floors. "What do you mean?"

Joe leans over the arm of the couch and shows Patrick his phone. "See? No bars. And the text won't send."

"Weird," says Patrick, his nose scrunching up. He pulls out his phone only to find the exact same situation. "Hey, Pete!" he calls.

It takes a second, but then Pete pokes his head over the railing at the top of the stairs, peering down into the living room. "What?"

Patrick stands and walks over so he's directly below Pete. "Cell service is completely down. I would try and accuse you, but I don't think even you could pull this one off."

"Yeah, no, I didn't do that," Pete says, jogging down the stairs and looking at Patrick's phone. "Huh. " He's kind of freaking out on the inside (not a rare occurrence these past few days), unsure of whether this is a blessing or a curse. "I suggest that we declare this unimportant at the moment and just have a cuddle pile instead. I'm cold."

Joe rolls his eyes. "If you're cold, why don't you just put a shirt on?"

"Not as good," Pete grins, clambering onto the couch and resting his head on Joe's thigh. "Where's Andy?"

Patrick nods toward the studio. "Playing. I'll go get him." He walks away, and Pete readjusts himself on Joe's lap.

"I love you," Pete says genuinely, looking up at Joe's face. "Seriously."

Joe reaches over and laces his and Pete's fingers together. "I love you too."

Pete squeezes Joe's hand gently and wants to fucking murder what or whoever is to blame for the fucking rock that's taking all of this from him in two days.

"Is everything okay?" Joe asks, squeezing Pete's hand back.

"I'm good," Pete assures him with a smile.

"Pete, you literally do this every time you suggest a cuddle pile," Patrick says as he walks in, fondly exasperated.

"Do what?"

"Sit on the small couch when we literally bought a giant, round chair specifically so we had a place where we could all fit together."

Pete looks over at the chair as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Yeah. I keep forgetting that exists."

He hops up and pulls Joe over onto the chair with him; they're followed by Patrick and Andy. As usual, it takes a few minutes (and a few elbows to the face) for everyone to get comfortable. Once everyone's settled, though, Pete leans his head contentedly on Patrick's shoulder and smiles. It's actually genuine, which feels like a first for the past couple of days. "I love you guys," he murmurs.

He gets a mumbled chorus of responses, and even though he can feel his foot falling asleep and he’s going to have to get up way too soon to make dinner and _oh yeah_ , the world's ending in two days – Pete's happy.

* * *

 

That night, Pete slips downstairs to watch the news again. It's much of the same as before, evacuations and closings and violence. The picture is fuzzier tonight. There are breaks of static constantly hissing across the screen, and every time Pete gets a little more afraid that it's not going to change back. He wishes he could call his mom again.

 

The news becomes overwhelming pretty quickly, so Pete switches the TV off and moves into the kitchen. Joe's phone is on the counter, charging; Pete unlocks it with the same passcode Joe's had for years (1234) and stares down at the text from Joe's brother.

 

 

And okay, this hurts. Because of Pete, Joe will never get to say goodbye to his family. None of them will. Of course, in just over 24 hours time, no one will ever even know.

Pete shuts the phone off and turns so he's bracing his back against the counter. Tears bite at his closed eyelids; he stops holding them back. Tomorrow - today, technically - is it. The last full day.

It's the last day anyone will ever have. Pete has to wonder if the rest of the world feels the way he does, like he was running down a seemingly infinite staircase only to trip halfway down, expecting another step but plummeting, somehow, into nothingness. He thinks back to just days before when time felt limitless, wonders how many pairs of scissors the Fates are going to need tomorrow.

The world is ending tomorrow.

Somewhere in the back of Pete's mind as he goes back upstairs, a room filled with Post-it note dreams is swept clean, a bucket list cut short by the last thing anyone expected. Pete falls asleep.

* * *

 

It's three am, and Pete's awake, and he's sneaking downstairs to make sure that the world isn't about to implode any sooner than planned. Except. . . something's off. The bed he slides out of is cold and there's the low murmur of voices from downstairs.

 _No,_ he thinks, and he's skidding down the hallway in bare feet and bumping into the railing because no, they weren't supposed to find out, but there they are. There they are, Patrick, Joe, and Andy, sitting on the couch with the TV on.

"Gratian is expected to hit at 7:23am PST," the newscaster is reading in an exhausted voice. "Evacuation rates from the northeastern Pacific region continue to grow daily."

Andy must hear Pete's footsteps, as he turns around. His face is stricken, but something cold seeps into his eyes when he sees Pete. "You knew." 

It's an accusation, not a question, and Pete can't say a word around the bile rising in his throat. 

Joe and Patrick turn around as well. Joe's face is disbelieving, Patrick's devastated. Pete's pretty sure he can physically feel his heart being ripped into a thousand unfixable pieces. "I-"

"Don't," Andy says. "I can't believe you wouldn't tell us, Pete."

Joe rests his hand on Andy's shoulder. "Andy. . ." 

"Andy has every right to be mad," Patrick interjects. His voice is quiet and rough. "We all do." Turning to Pete, he says, "I just want to know why. _We_ just want to know why."

"Because I couldn't," Pete murmurs. "I couldn't, okay?" He wraps his arms around himself and imagines that he's fading away into the crack between the floor. "I-" 

"That's not a good enough reason," Andy says, and this is the first time Pete's actually seen him angry in ages. "Pete, you can't just come up with these schemes and assume they're the right thing to do. Because of you, I don't get to tell my family goodbye."

 Pete opens his mouth to spill some defense, but he's cut off by Patrick. "Andy does have a point, Pete. It's not okay to make these sorts of decisions for people."

"I didn't get to say goodbye to my brother," Joe says, almost as if the truth of this is only now setting in. "I didn't get to say goodbye." His gaze burns into Pete. "I didn't get to say goodbye, and it's all your fucking fault, Pete."

"Look, it-"

Joe shakes his head. "I don't want to hear it. And you know what? I hate y-"

He's cut off by a blinding white light. The living room dissolves in a flash of heat, and Pete wakes up, shaking, in his own bed. The clock reads 5:02am. _Fuck,_ he thinks. It was only a dream. 

Beside him, Patrick makes a soft noise and rolls over in his sleep. Trying to block out the echo of Joe's words, Pete curls his body around Andy's and falls asleep once more.

* * *

 

When Pete wakes up again, the world has less than 24 hours left. When Pete wakes up again, the world has less than 24 hours left. The sunlight streaming through the curtains is diluted by the heavy cover of clouds across the sky. It looks like it's about to rain. Joe's still asleep, arms hanging haphazardly off of the edge of the bed, but Patrick and Andy can be heard in the kitchen downstairs.

Pete stays in bed for a while, watching the blades of the ceiling fan whir and finding himself incapable of actually wrapping his brain around the fact that the world is ending tomorrow.

Eventually he gets up, throws on some clothes, goes downstairs, tries to pretend that everything is fine. (Which, of course, it's not. Pretty much _nothing_ is fine right now.)

Pete's trying his best to hold it together, he really is, but it's. It's hard. Like when Patrick greets him with a smile and the softest kiss. Like when Joe comes downstair and curls into Andy's lap on the couch and Pete kinda feels like he's bursting from how much he loves them. Like when he has to make Andy switch seats with him at lunch so he can't see the clock. 

Time moves too fast.

Time moves too fast, and the day only seems to accelerate as it goes on. There's a vague tinge of cabin fever in the air that's not helped at all when rain starts painting the windows. Everyone kind of splits off after breakfast, which Pete understands. No matter how much you love someone, there's only so much of them you can handle in a confined space.

So he flits around the house, helping Patrick dust his guitars if only to hear him sing, kicking Joe's ass in Mario Kart (several times, he might add), and being a very supportive one-man audience while Andy drums. It's a good day.

Even though it's still raining, Pete grabs Hemmy's leash and takes him for a walk around the block. He's soaked through in seconds but can't bring himself to really care.

"The world's ending," Pete confides to his dog. "Tomorrow. Did you know?" 

Hemmy doesn't answer, just sticks his face into a dirty puddle and tries to drink it. Pete sighs and gently pulls him away.

"You're lucky, Hem. Humans seriously drew the short straw. And right now it kinda feels like that straw was the pin of a grenade." (He kinda wishes he had the time to turn that into a lyric.) Pete blinks up at the sky, trying to picture what it'll look like tomorrow morning. Red, he imagines, red and orange and light and then nothing. Nothing.

The concept of nothing hurts, and that's about when Pete realizes that he's shivering, has been for minutes now, that his black hoodie is literally dripping with water, that he's stood out in a downpour talking to his dog, that he's going to die tomorrow.

Wiping what he tells himself is rain, and rain only, from his cheeks, Pete turns around and walks home. 

He steps through the door to the sound of Elvis Costello's voice filtering through Patrick's record player. The house feels warm, even though something about the normally cozy lights only seems to make the outside darker. It's about five pm, and the world is ending in fourteen hours.

Pete quickly ushers Hemmy into the mudroom so he can air dry and takes off his own sodden jacket before going into the living room and leaning over the back of the couch to hug Joe. Andy is spinning Patrick around to the music while the latter belts out the words between his laughs.

Joe turns and smiles up at Pete. "Hey. That was quick."

"Yeah, I would've stayed out a bit longer, but I think Hemmy was getting really cold. And I wanted to get back to you guys."

Joe rolls his eyes and kisses Pete. "Sap," he murmurs in the space of their shared breaths.

"You love it," Pete shoots back.

Joe shrugs mock-helplessly. "You got me."

Pete leans in to kiss him again, and then Patrick swings over, still singing along to _(I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea_ quite zealously. "Come dance," Patrick says, taking Pete's hand 

Pete obliges after pressing a kiss to Joe's lips and whispering, "You too, love," and then they're all just dancing together, and it's cheesy and a little uncoordinated but it's _them_ and it's perfect.

The album comes to an end all too soon, and they all just kind of stop where they are, all tangled in one another's arms and just slightly out of breath. It’s the best Pete’s felt in a long time - here, holding onto Joe’s hand and head tucked into the crook of Patrick’s neck. He can feel the gentle beat of Patrick’s pulse and realizes that he can’t actually comprehend it coming to a stop. He can’t die. None of them can, not when they’re here right now and they’re so alive and Pete can’t breathe for how much he loves them. A fucking rock can’t just wipe that out. Pete thinks that someone should’ve written that into the fineprint of the universe, that people with this much life and love left to give shouldn’t be allowed to die.

It’s almost kind of weird, how relatively calm he is about everything else, how the fact that millions upon millions of people are going to die tomorrow. It’s shocking, of course, and it’s horrible. But all of that has had no effect even close to what feeling Andy’s breath on his cheek is doing to Pete right now.

They can’t die. It’s stupid, Pete knows, but he swears that right now, right here, they really do feel infinite. _Immortals,_ he thinks, and he wishes more than anything that that was funnier.

* * *

 

They all collapse into a pile on the chair in the living room after dinner. (Dinner was vegan pancakes that Pete made. Joe had suggested ordering pizza, but Pete had a feeling that nothing was really open at this stage in the game.) 

“Movie night?” Pete asks, laying his legs across Joe’s thighs.

“Again?” says Andy, but Pete can tell it’s already a yes by the way the drummer settles in closer to Patrick.

“Of course! You can never have too many movie nights.”  
Joe picks up the remote and turns the DVD player on. “We’re watching _A New Hope,_ then. I put it in earlier just in case, so no ifs, ands, or buts.”

They all murmur agreement, and there’s a collective rustling as they all shift into a comfortable position. When Patrick drops his head onto Pete’s shoulder, Pete presses a smile and a kiss into the top of Patrick’s hair. It’s good, it’s home, and Pete just has to keep reminding himself to watch the screen instead of the clock blinking underneath it.

About halfway through the movie, Pete decides it’s about time to complete the plan he conceived in the grocery store what feels like centuries ago and sits up.“I’m going to get something to drink, you guys want anything?”  
Joe lifts his arm from around Patrick’s shoulders, sitting up as well.. “Want me to get it?"  
  
“Nah, I’ve got it.” Pete waves a hand, hoping the movement doesn’t come off as frantic as he feels right now.

“Thanks, babe,” Joe says, settling back in next to Patrick. “Can you just get me some water, please? And n-”  
  
“No ice,” Pete finishes. “Got it. Patrick, Andy?”  
“I’ll have water too,” says Andy, and Patrick nods in a “same-here” gesture.

“Be right back,” Pete says, trying to minimize the amount of elbow-stomach collisions as he climbs out of the chair. 

Thankfully, the movie is turned up just loud enough to drown out the sounds. The sounds are Pete opening one more cabinet than he needs to, a plastic cap clattering onto the counter when it slips from shaking hands, a spoon clinking against glass as it stirs.  The pit in his stomach grows as he sips from one glass and is relieved to find that it's tasteless. He just prays that it'll be enough, prays that someone will be able to forgive him for this when he can't. 

Pete carries the glasses into the living room on a tray so he doesn't have to make two trips. He's sure to keep one separate; he doesn't want to risk falling asleep and having the others freak out when they turn on the news or something. 

"I'm back," he says unnecessarily, and his fingers tremble along with his vocal cords.

 He passes the water around before settling back into his spot. Next to him, Joe takes a sip and Pete wants to smash the glass out of his hand and yell that there's been a mistake, that he's so sorry, that he _can't fucking do this._ But when he tries to force the words from his throat, the pit in his stomach swallows them back down.

"I love you," Pete finds himself saying instead. "I really fucking love all of you guys."

Andy smiles at him. "Love you too, Wentz." 

Joe and Patrick both mumble something affirmative, and Pete kinda falls for all of three of them all over again. It's not fucking fair, there's not enough time and it's _not fucking fair._

Pete has to duck his face into Patrick's arm for a moment to blink back tears before sitting up and carefully refocusing his attention on the movie. It's nearly impossible, though, to ignore the way the fissure in his heart starts to travel along every bone and every vein in his body when he sees Joe fall asleep. 

After Joe, Patrick dozes off, then Andy, and Pete stumbles out of the pile and into the bathroom to vomit. He can't do this, he has to shake them awake and tell them the truth before it's morning and he has to face the end alone.

He can't do this. But somehow, he has to. So Pete goes back into the living room and draws the curtains shut. It's stopped raining, but there are still enough clouds to obscure every star. Something about that feels like a metaphor Pete really doesn't want to contemplate right now.

And then the curtains are closed and Hemmy's asleep in his bed and Pete's irrevocably alone and there's nothing left for Pete to do but slink back to the couch and turn on the news.

There's nothing new, of course, but there's a timer in the bottom right corner that Pete can't ignore. Waves of static hiss across the screen every couple of seconds, sometimes completely covering the screen, and each time Pete gets a little more scared that the newscaster won't show up again. 

Around two am, the static takes over, just as the newscaster starts to say something about, "In these last few hours-"

By three am, the static's gone too, flickering out without fanfare. Pete shivers. It's not from the cold. The only record of time now is found in the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

He crawls in with his boyfriends after that, reveling in the rise and fall of their chests and wishing more than anything to find a way to save them. No such miracle is forthcoming, though, and six am sneaks up behind Pete and steals away more of his last few minutes.

It's 6:18 when he does it, when he shakes the last of the pills into his hand and swallows them with only a moment's hesitation. It doesn't feel real.

It doesn't feel real as he gently presses goodbyes to Andy, Patrick, and Joe's lips, as he still pretends to not hear the voice in the back of his mind wondering if this was the right choice. It doesn't feel real as the minutes continue to pass, as a million and one memories pass through Pete's mind like cars on a late-night interstate. It doesn't feel real as he feels his eyes drift shut, and it doesn't feel real as a too-bright light begins to peek around the edges of the curtains. _fin._

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading; i live off of feedback


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